It is the rarest bird in Galápagos with an estimated population of just 80 individuals—and 8 of their eggs were just safely transported to the Charles Darwin Research Station via our ship National Geographic Endeavour II. And even better news—one of the eggs hatched en route! Beau Parks, lead keeper at San Diego Zoo’s Avian Propagation Center, was aboard with the team from the Mangrove Finch Project who are bringing the 7 eggs and one hatchling back to the Charles Darwin Research Center. Thank you Fanny Cuninghame, Mangrove Finch Project Leader at the station, for trusting us with this precious cargo. The eggs and hatchling retrieved on this expedition, the latest in a multi-year collaboration between the San Diego Zoo and the CDRS to give the birds a a head-start. It’s a good day for conservation in the islands. We’re thrilled to be support this important work.
By Sharon Eva Grainger, Naturalist & Lindblad-National Geographic certified photo instructor
All cultures create monuments to represent and commemorate an aspect of their history and ancestry. In the Pacific Northwest First Nations people carve these stories in tall and ancient Western red cedar. Since the end of September, James Hart, his family and several colleagues have been in the final stages of carving an 800-year-old tree, transforming it into their story of Reconciliation. The pole is being completed behind the Museum of Anthropology on the UBC campus in Vancouver British Columbia. The creation of this 70-foot tall story pole actually started far to the north in Haida Gwaii more than two years ago.
I have been very fortunate to watch this process from the beginning. Working for Lindblad Expeditions-National Geographic as a naturalist and photo instructor, I travel with guests for two weeks, once in the spring and again in the fall, aboard the National Geographic Sea Lion and Sea Bird through the Inside Passage from Washington State, through British Columbia to Southeast Alaska. In the spring, we travel north, following the migrating animals and birds returning to their feeding and nesting grounds. In the fall, we travel south, following the return of the salmon, an ever changing bounty. These fish return to their natal rivers, flowing through Alaska, British Columbia, Washington, and Oregon, providing food for bears, birds, small forest creatures, and for all humans who celebrate in the harvest of these fish. In the spirit of this place, our small vessels journey through the waters of the Inside Passage following canoe paths of generations of Native and First Nations people who have called this land home and celebrated the abundance of land and sea. Indigenous peoples are resilient, living their culture in spite of generations of trials and tribulations. They constantly consider how they are treating the Earth and how to preserve it for the next seven generations who will follow in their footsteps.
A highlight of our journey is a visit to Haida Gwaii, an archipelago, located approximately 62 miles off the coast of Northern British Columbia. Crossing Hecate Strait and waking up in Haida Gwaii is heartily welcomed by staff, crew, and guests. I often rise early, walk out on deck and watch the approach to the dock in Queen Charlotte City, excited to be in another home along the Northwest coast. I am looking forward to visiting old friends and seeing where the months have taken us all! Once our guests are on shore, we board two school busses, the only available transportation large enough for all of us, and make our way north along the length of Graham Island to the community of Old Massett.
Old Massett is one of several communities in Haida Gwaii where the resurgence of Haida culture and art can be found. Over the last three years our travels here have included extraordinary visits to the home and workplaces of Haida Artists. In Old Massett, in the late 1960s a new totem pole was raised, the first one in nearly 100 years. Today, 50 years later, as we walk around the community we see many totem poles, carved canoes, painted house fronts and signs advertising argillite carving.
I think back on my first visit to James and Rosemary Hart’s home three years ago. I often reflect on those moments being welcomed into the home of a renowned living Haida artist with his family all around him. His home was his studio, his studio was his home. It was a visual feast: tools, future plans for projects, and so many implements associated with family life covered in form line design. When I really listened, I heard James speak about Haida Gwaii, a land he is firmly a part of. I could not only see the sharp and precise motions he made in carving, but I became aware that it was exactly how he spoke, carefully choosing words, shaped to make the same impact as a crooked knife or elbow adz makes in red cedar.
In these last weeks I have been fortunate enough to watch as James and members of his family and community continue transforming this 70-foot Western red cedar log into the Reconciliation Pole that tells the painful story of the residential schools of Canada.
From 1876 until 1996, when the last federally-operated residential school was closed, the Canadian government removed First Nations children from their homes and communities to eradicate First Nations language and culture. As a result of the effect on First Nations people in Canada, the Truth and Reconciliation commission was officially established on June 2, 2008 and completed in December of 2015. The James Hart Reconciliation Pole was inspired “To keep the memory of residential school history alive. Through understanding, through truth, through respect, forward movement can happen.”
Northwest coast art is constantly evolving. The Reconciliation Pole tells a story in wood but James has taken that idea a step further by placing a residential school near the center of the pole “to look like it was dropped onto the heads of the people.” The carvings below the school represent the world of the Haida people before the children were removed from their families and villages. A mother bear and her cubs, a shaman in ritual, salmon, and the central figure of Raven, the trickster. Raven not only cajoled the first humans out of a clam shell in his trickster voice but also brought the sun, moon and stars to the world of Haida Gwaii along with many other things the Haida people enjoy today. Above the school are the children with numbers carved into their torsos, as was the custom during the time of the residential schools, where children were only known by numbers.
James is working with different indigenous carvers from North America carving the faces of these children. Fifty-seven-thousand-two-hundred solid copper nails are being pounded into various parts of the totem pole represent children who died while attending residential schools across Canada. Above the carved children, the spirit figures of a killer whale, bear, eagle and thunderbird representing water, land, air, and the supernatural moving the story towards the future with hope. Above these figures there is a carved mother, father, and children showing “the family unit getting stronger today.” Following upward another symbol of reconciliation: water waves and two boats. One is a non-native long boat, the other, a traditional First Nations Canoe representing reconciliation between indigenous and non-indigenous peoples moving forward together. At the top of the pole an eagle is poised about to take flight. This part of the carving was done by James and his late son Carl, an expression of keeping those we have lost close to us, always near in our hearts. As James would say, “that motion of flight taking us towards our future.”
When this pole was shipped in late September from Haida Gwaii to Vancouver it was scheduled to be raised on October 15, 2016. That date has been changed to accommodate ongoing meetings with the Musqueam band council, whose unceded lands include the UBC campus. All parties involved are now completing decisions on the exact location for the raising of the pole and that date has been delayed until March of 2017. An honoring celebration was held on October 15, 2016 in support of the Reconciliation Pole, hosted by James Hart and his family. Many supporting Northwest Coast people and community members across borders were in attendance. Speeches, blessings, and a fine meal were shared by all!
The delay of the raising of this pole has allowed many people within the Pacific Northwest to be involved, to share, to witness and to help in completing the Reconciliation Pole.
I will continue to write segments throughout the winter to inform, not only all our guests who have watched the carving of this pole, but our communities both in Canada and the United States about its progress. I look forward to sharing more as this project moves towards the raising of the Reconciliation Pole this coming spring.
By Charlotte Fisher, Junior Naturalist, Age 11
No words can truly describe the full experience of seeing the elusive ice bear up close. In my humble opinion, this kind of a thing can’t be captured on camera, or film, one has to be there in person to understand the magic of being so close to a creature so, well, magical. Yesterday morning, I woke up, slightly tired from the gentle rocking of the ship, but also very excited. We were in bear country!
The previous night, we had sighted a bear. It had been amazing! Unfortunately, we were unable to get very close up to it, so it ended up being a “pixel bear”. Still, this had given me a taste of what was yet to come. At breakfast that morning, I ate a pancake while sitting precariously perched on my chair, nervously waiting to run to the bow of the boat in the event of any bear sightings. After breakfast, as I was walking back to the room I shared with my Mom, somewhat disappointed, the Captain came over the loudspeaker that was wired through the boat. Before he could even finish the words “polar bear,” my mom and I were madly dashing to the upper deck of the National Geographic Orion’s bow.
That bear was, well, simply breathtaking. The Orion is an ice-class ship, which allows her to slide through the ice fields in order to get up close to the bears. The boat came so close to that bear, that I could see the brown in its eyes. The polar bears are actually surprisingly cute. They roll around on the ice like they’re playful dogs (I later learned this was simply a cleaning process) however, still remain composed and strangely dignified.
As I watched this first bear in it’s natural habitat, I thought: “Wow. This is real. Not manufactured.” There was something so truly wholesome and magical in the experience, that the other five times bears appeared that day, I ran as quickly as I could to the bridge of the ship to watch them, as excited as if I had personally discovered the polar bear. This was probably the best day of the entire adventure. I saw mother bears with their cubs, a giant male bear, prowling over the ice, searching for a seal to snack on, and more! By the time the day ended, I was exhausted, invigorated, and amazed.
But probably the most exciting part of the day—the final bear we saw was rolling around on the ice on the port side of the boat. From my room, I could see the bear directly out the window. It was a very surreal moment, and a perfect way to end a day that I will remember forever.
* Charlotte Fisher is an 11-year old from Colorado who has traveled with her mother and grandmother on several Lindblad Expeditions. Our naturalist staff, charmed by her intelligence and obvious passion for exploring, has consistently engaged her. Given the task of writing Daily Expedition Reports on past South Pacific and Alaska expeditions as well as presenting at Recaps, she performed superbly, earning the right to call herself a “Senior” Junior Naturalist. So we asked her to act as a Lindblad Expeditions field correspondent on her most recent adventure in Arctic Svalbard. This is her just-filed report.
By Audrey McCollum
For two tense hours in November of 1981 Bob and I stared across the shallows where the swamps of Irian Jaya merged into the Sea of Arafura in this western sector of the island of New Guinea, which was a province of Indonesia. With our fellow passengers we lined the railings of the M.S. Lindblad Explorer, squinting into the blaze.
At midday, our scouting party had set off in a Zodiac, one of the inflatable rubber launches with outboard motors that the Explorer carried to make landings at virtually inaccessible places. The team set off for the Asmat village of Biwar Laut to explain our coming, present gifts, and set the mood for a peaceful reception. Mike McDowell, an exuberant Australian adventurer, led the way with Sutan Wiesmar, our dignified Indonesian escort, close behind. And there was an eager tag-along, sixteen year-old Mark Heighes, nephew of Valerie Taylor. Val and her husband, Ron, talented Australian underwater film makers and marine naturalists, led our scuba and snorkeling explorations when the waters were clear.
Mike’s walkie-talkie was his fragile connection to the ship, anchored several miles from shore. By sundown we received no message from Mike. Evening closed in and the darkness beyond our cocoon of light and safely was absolute. Still no word.
There were uneasy murmurs among our sixty shipmates. We reminded each other that Irian Jaya was still largely unexplored. We recalled that the Asmats were the tribespeople among whom Michael Rockefeller, the young explorer-photographer, mysteriously disappeared in 1961. Some believed he was cannibalized.
The day before we had steamed past the town of Agats to seek people who were living as they’d lived since the dawn of time. These were jungle people who believed that their mythic ancestors were carved from wood and then imbued with life. They were despised by many Indonesians who called them less than human. Allowing our deepest dreads to rise into our awareness, we muttered to each other that the raids of an Asmat tribal war were swift and deadly. The victors carried home the heads of their victims and, with elaborate ceremony, consumed the brains so that they might incorporate their power.
By midnight, Valerie looked distraught. She cherished Mark like a son. But in reluctant recognition that we couldn’t help Mark, Mike or Wiesmar by staying awake, most of us crept away to our berths expecting (or now just hoping) that our own excursion would begin at dawn. And the wanderers did return. They slipped back aboard at two in the morning after feasting and drinking at Biwar Laut as the villagers celebrated Wiesmar’s reappearance.
Wiesmar was an adopted son of this tribe. On an earlier visit, he had explained, he had accepted their adoption ritual, a pantomime of birth. While a line of women stood with their legs spread wide apart, Wiesmar squirmed through this symbolic birth canal. When he emerged, dripping with sweat as a newborn might drip with amniotic fluid, his three new “mothers”–the chief’s three wives–stooped over and dangled their breasts so he could suckle. He feigned it, brushing his lips across their milkless nipples. Then the corpulent “baby” was lifted by a half dozen men, carried among the villagers, and was finally given his Asmat name.
Wiesmar was our passport.
At daybreak we began droning through the muddy waters. Our eyes smarted from scanning the distant, unbroken wall of lowland jungle, and straining for our first glimpse of the tribesmen. The walkie-talkies in our Zodiacs were the only means of communication with the ship and we would soon be beyond their range. My excitement was tinged with dread. Several months earlier, Mike told us, a party of German adventurers from a sailing vessel attempted to visit the village we were seeking today. They were driven away by a hail of deadly arrows.
Then a wave of nostalgia washed over me. I reached for Bob, my husband, and clutched his hand –a warm, strong hand, broad, with sturdy fingers and raggedy nails. It was two days before Thanksgiving, time to join with our daughter and son in our Connecticut home ––the home we’d soon be leaving to resettle in New Hampshire. What were we doing across the earth in this hot, damp, alien place?
As a psychotherapist I always search for the “whys,” the motives that steer our course through life. Were my husband and I unconsciously re-enacting an ancient drama? From earliest known time and throughout the world, traditional peoples have engaged in rites of passage to foster their transition from one place to another, one life phase to another.
Was our choice to travel across the world to a region this remote an unconscious rehearsal for the rupture we faced? Leaving the community where we had met, married, and reared our young was going to mean tearing away from the house, garden, streets, schools, shops, theaters, restaurant, offices, lecture halls, patients, students, colleagues and friends among which our lives had been enmeshed for nearly thirty years. It was going to be a kind of death. Were we drawn to the primal—the earliest modes of human life surviving today—to practice that death by disconnecting emphatically from our familiar existence?
My musings were interrupted when a flotilla of canoes streaked out from an unseen river mouth, each vessel propelled by a dozen or more standing men. In single file, exquisitely balanced in their narrow craft, their dark bodies worked in synchronized effort. Each thrust of the paddles, at least twice the men’s height, was punctuated by a deep and urgent grunt that resounded across the water. “Yu-wa. Yu-wa. Yi, Yi, eh!” As they approached we saw that the aged and the very young were seated between the men, not to be left out of this exuberant male excursion.
Now they were close. Their muscular bodies had been smeared with bold stripes of white lime and red ochre, incongruous with the trade store shorts they wore (and would doff as the day advanced). Their eyes were masked by designs that swirled across their foreheads and cheekbones and traveled down the bridge of their noses—broad noses with bulbous tips. Their nasal septums had been pierced and dragged downward by the weight of carved bone or shell ornaments, causing the nostrils to flare outward and upward like the wings of a bird in flight.
Several men wore strands of dog’s teeth around their necks, and many wore headbands of amber fur bordered with tiny cowry shells. The headbands, like the shafts of some of the paddles, were festooned with white plumage that glistened in the rays of the rising sun. With adornments such as these, the Asmats traditionally “transformed” themselves into birds or fruit-eating bats (“flying foxes”) for a celebration. Or a headhunting raid.
Soon we were encircled by canoes and chanting men and I felt the cold edge of fear. I scanned the other boats for a reassuring glimpse of Wiesmar, but he was invisible in the throng. Surrounded by tribesmen, Bob and I trusted that the good will they felt towards Wiesmar would extend to us. But still, we all waved at them gaily, and smiled urgently to convey our friendly intentions.
The canoes closed in and five men leaped into Bob’s and my Zodiac. Black Melanesian skin was pressed against Caucasian white, an oddly pleasant intimacy. One man had a slender oval face. He looked shy, eager, and very young, holding a carved bamboo horn between his legs. Another man’s face was heart-shaped, his cheekbones wide and the vee of his chin accentuated by a trim moustache and pointed beard. His eyes looked wary beneath his fur headpiece, made from the cuscus , a tree-climbing marsupial. The third had a sculpted face, the bones tautly covered with back-brown flesh. His fur headpiece was adorned with soaring plumage– the white of the graceful egret, the black of the king cockatoo.
The fourth Asmat had frontal facial bones that jutted forward so much that his brows overhung and shadowed his eyes, giving him a menacing mien. The fifth man sported a huge shell ornament that half obscured his face. Joined at his nasal septum, its two sides curved like a wild boar’s tusks or a coiled cuscus tail. Both creatures were symbols of headhunting and the ornament –- a bi pane –was the most important one a man could wear. It announced that he had taken a head.
We all moved toward the river mouth amidst bursts of chanting and the mournful counterpoint of bamboo horns, the horns that were traditionally blown during raids to terrify the enemy. When the tribesmen paused, a few of us had an irresistible urge to respond, so we offered a spirited round of “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream …” The tribesmen looked perplexed.
And we didn’t go gently down the stream. Left to their own, these men would follow the tides that inundated their land every day, sometimes as far inland as sixty miles. But, governed by the schedule of our ship, we had turned upriver against the current, confident that outboard motors could overcome nature’s rhythms. And following our lead but needing more power than muscles could provide, paddlers in twenty dugouts tried to attach themselves to our seven Zodiacs with looping vines and clasping hands.
Encumbered by the clinging canoes, the Zodiacs lurched off course. The strong current shot us all diagonally to riverside. Asmats were swept by overhanging mangrove trees into the turbulent water. Would they drown? Would they become hostile? To our relief, the river was shallow and they clambered back into the boats, dripping but with good humor.
At last, after a four-hour journey, we landed at the village of Biwar Laut, coaxing our Zodiacs onto the grey-brown mud that the ebbing tide exposed. But the canoes veered back out, forming two opposing lines. A gutteral cry set in motion a nautical ballet as thrusting paddles propelled the boats toward, between, and around each other, leaving swirls of glistening sherry-colored water behind.
Village women had gathered among us, their hair shorn as closely as the men’s, their loins and thighs covered with sarongs of shabby trade store cloth. Children who looked as old as three or four clung to their mother’s backs like baby monkeys, well supported by maternal arms. And woven carriers enfolded the youngest ones. No little Asmat seemed unattended.
Then, as the men again approached the shore, the women began hurling sticks and clods of earth toward them. The women were laughing but I learned how much their missiles could sting when two grazed my shoulder. Asmat women, said to be happy and powerful, customarily pelted their men when they came back from an excursion. It was the women’s revenge for any wrongs they had suffered.
“Hey, I’m not a man,” I muttered as I daubed at the trickles of blood on my arm. Yet I wasn’t an Asmat woman either. Was this ambiguity a foretaste of life after our family move – not belonging, my identity peeled away?
Bob and I joined the passengers traipsing through banana trees and sago palms to drier, springier, open ground. It was strewn with wood chips from carvings, both recent and old – the carvings of canoe prows, paddles, spears, shields, drums, headrests for slumber, and ancestor figures for which the Asmats were world-renowned. In Asmat myth, the Creator of Man was also the First Woodcarver, and master carvers were revered.
We gathered in front of the yeu, a longhouse that spanned at least sixty feet and was supported five feet above the ground by several dozen poles. This was where bachelors slept and all the males passed much of the day. It was where hunting forays and ceremonies were planned, and where small boys learned the legends and lore of their people.
We mingled there with the villagers, tramping unavoidably over the buried bones of tribal ancestors with whom they felt always connected. Some of those ancestors’ spirits were embodied in a soaring bis pole erected in front of the yeu. But to our disappointment it was draped today in dried banana leaves that hid the carvings from our eyes.
To welcome us, the women were starting to dance., but the men couldn’t wait. They began carrying some of their carvings out of the yeu and offering them for sale. The Asmats still lived outside of a cash economy, but those men who had traveled to Agats were aware that carvings had been purchased by the cultural museum there. They also knew that their carvings could be sold for money that could, in turn, be exchanged for fishing hooks, matches, razor blades, and the spiced, pressed tobacco of Indonesia.
Bob and I joined our shipmates as they surged forward, jostling each other in their eagerness to see and compare the carvings. Crude but powerful designs represented the hornbill, the black king cockatoo, the praying mantis, or the bi pane – all symbols of headhunting. Many were painted in an intricate interplay of three colors. White was made from ground shells mixed with water and symbolized strength. Red had been extracted from a special tree and stood for happiness – or violence. Black paint prepared from charcoal represented the vagina or female fluids. Some of our shipmates bargained energetically for drums, spears, ancestor figures and even paddles.
Amidst the confusion, some Asmat women did dance, responding to the insistent beat of their carved hourglass shaped kundu drums. The women’s torsos were almost motionless, but their feet swiveled and their thighs parted and met in rapid oscillations as though wings were being flapped. One elderly woman whose skeleton seemed to press through her withering flesh danced exuberantly, her haunches bare except for a scanty grass skirt pulled back between her thighs like a loincloth and held in place by a woven waistband. She drummed and chanted and sang with such passion that the veins bulged in her neck. I longed to understand her message. I longed to join in her song.
When the ship had called at small Indonesian islands, many in contact with Europeans since the earliest explorers appeared, I was welcomed into the women’s dances. But although I tried to engage the Asmat women’s eyes, and although I tentatively imitated their movements, they didn’t respond. Their glances were uncomprehending and indifferent.
Their energy was intense, yet they looked as though they had been sucked dry by their babes. Among the older women, probably younger than I, bare breasts were pendant flaps of skin, abdomens were slack, loins were skinny and narrow. The Asmats gathered a variety of protein foods—fish, crustaceans, birds, wild boars, cuscus, flying foxes (fruit-eating bats), and highly prized sago beetle grubs. But it looked doubtful that the women got the share they needed.
After the dance we were allowed into the yeu; it faced the river so that the men could watch for approaching enemies. This was a male domain, forbidden to women except for special occasions – a celebration of peace between villages, the inauguration of a newly built longhouse or, apparently, an arranged visit by foreigners. We reached the porch and the five raised entrances by clambering up a sturdy pole with notches hacked out to form crude steps – a ladder that could readily be drawn up and pulled inside while arrows were drawn against invaders. Our awkward entrance must have provided a strange spectacle for the silent watchers.
The interior was dim and dense with smoke from five or six fires smoldering on mud hearths that protected the wooden flooring. We could barely discern the shapes of seated men grouped around their family hearths, with their drums and spears stacked on rafters above. And our understanding of what we saw was as hazy as the air. Bob and I retreated, frustrated by our sense of disconnection. It wasn’t simply to view images–as though we were watching a television documentary–that we had traveled across the world.
The Asmat women had melted away into the shadowy dwellings they shared with their young–airy but simple dwellings raised on poles. Three sides were enclosed by vertically aligned stems of the sago palm leaf, and the roofs were made of thatch.
A few of us tried to explore the village, escorted by eager children. My companion, a little girl, stroked the beads of perspiration off my hand and probed my arm through my long-sleeved shirt. Bob’s escort was concerned with his sweat. He drew his fingers across Bob’s streaming neck and then wiped the wetness on himself, first his own neck and then his groin, maybe absorbing Bob’s essence to strengthen himself. And Bob happily surrendered his sweat as a pleasant alternative to his head.
The going was precarious. The few dry pathways were connected by slimy logs and a misstep would mean a plunge into the ooze. We soon turned back. Most of our shipmates returned to the Zodiacs to chug away for their picnic lunch. One by one, Asmat men and boys were doffing their shorts and exposing their bodies to whatever whisp of breeze they could find in this torrid climate.
Mike stayed behind with Wiesmar. Valerie, who was searching for a new lizard skin for her kundu drum, stayed with Mark and Ron. And Ellen, a young American teacher, stayed with Bob and me. She clearly shared our rising urge to communicate, to reach across the chasm between our techno-culture and these people’s elemental existence.
Feeling uncertain about how to do that, the three of us crouched on a dry log in front of the yeu. More curious children gathered around. Their sparkling eyes and sweet smiles drew us toward them even as we fought the urge to back away from the purulent green mucus oozing out of their noses. There was an expectancy as the children gazed at us and we at them, so Ellen lifted her arms and began to count, signing each number with her raised fingers.
“One”, she said. “One”, they replied. “Two.” “Two”, came the response. And so pure was the imitation that when she stammered “s-s-seven” the response was “s-s-seven” with precisely the same inflection. These children’s ears were so attuned to the myriad sound of the rainforest that no subtle change was missed.
Ellen fell silent. The children’s eager gazes were unwavering so I began to sing. They listened intently, bright brown eyes fixed on my face, and they drew even closer. Impassive men watched from the porch of the yeu and Bob was quiet too. My repertory of college songs and folksongs was soon depleted. But, perhaps because it was approaching Christmas, I thought of carols. “Silent Night, Holy Night,” I sang softly. And then I felt an uncanny awareness that I was no longer singing alone. As though there was an echo coming out of the jungle, clear young voices accompanied my own. The words were in a strange dialect but the melody, surely taught by an itinerant missionary, was pure and true.
“All is calm, All is bright . . . “ Eerily, in a forested swamp 10,000 miles from the snowy lanes and Yuletide lights of home, we celebrated the Christmas message with children of headhunters.
Photos & story by Eric Guth.
Four years hard work from our staff and agents finally paid off as today we were the first foreign-flagged expedition ship in history to sail into the protected waters in and around Staten Island, Argentina. Administered as part of the Argentine province of Tierra Del Fuego, Staten Island has been off limits to tourism since 1923 when it was decreed a natural reserve for fur seals. Since that time protection of the islands natural heritage has increased and visitation further limited. As of this year local authorities have decided to slowly open up the island to permitted visits with the National Geographic Explorer being the first. We will be spent three days exploring this small island located 18 miles of the south eastern tip of Tierra Del Fuego.
With a strong western wind and another vessel ahead, our attempt to land on Cape Horn today was a lesson in patience. Hopes were high that the forecast of calming winds would prevail but when our chance came, and there was no reprieve, we made the charge anyway. This photo was taken from my porthole aboard the National Geographic Explorer while rounding Cape Horn for the first time this season and about an hour before we all braved the elements and stepped foot on the southernmost bit of land outside of Antarctica.
Day two at Staten Island, Argentina. During the night National Geographic Explorer cruised into Puerto San Juan del Salvamento, located in the extreme northeast corner of the island. This is the protected locale where Jules Verne wrote the first draft of his adventure novel, The Lighthouse at the End of the World in 1901. This is the view from the lighthouse (San Juan del Salvamento) that inspired his writing and offered our first opportunity to step foot on Staten Island after a day of Zodiac cruising yesterday. With calm conditions and warm weather our first hike ashore could not have been more inspiring.
Our last day at Staten Island proceeded as unexpectedly calm as the rest. With only a few kilometers to cover between Cook Bay (our evening destination yesterday) and Isla Observatario, we arrived to this low, inconspicuous island early this morning and were immediately inundated with life. Imperial blue-eyed shags, Magellanic penguins, South American sea lions, fur seals, etc. were all coming to and from the sea as we cruised along the edge of this unassumingly biologically rich island. Here, a group of imperial blue-eyed shags takes off from their nesting site on the north shore of Staten Island.
Before pulling away from Argentina’s Staten Island until next year I wanted to add another shot from my favorite location this trip. Hoppner Bay on the islands northeast corner was thick with lichen, moss and southern beech trees like this gnarled specimen. Right down to waterline this wind sculpted flora will leave perhaps the most lasting memory for me when I day dream about the landscape of Staten Island.
As National Geographic Explorer transitions from Staten Island to Ushuaia and preps for her next voyage the link between the two locations might not be readily apparent. Inhabited initially as a penal colony, Staten Island’s prison was abandoned in 1903 and all its inmates, as well as their buildings, were transferred to Ushuaia, establishing the roots to this jumping off point towards the Falkland Islands, South Georgia, and Antarctica, the three destinations for our upcoming trip aboard National Geographic Explorer. Goodbye Staten Island. See you next year.
In 2016 every Lindblad-National Geographic Patagonia expedition will explore Staten Island. Choose from the 12-day Patagonia: Chilean Fjords and Argentina’s Staten Island; the 16-day Best of Chilean Patagonia: From Torres del Paine to Cape Horn; or the 20-day Rounding the Cape: Chilean Patagonia & Argentina’s Staten Island.
By Erin McFadden. Photos by Jack & Rikki Swenson.
The reception we received as we landed on the tranquil shores of Tanna Island was filled with the distinctive joviality that lines many of the South Pacific shorelines we visit. On this Vanuatuan Island women with wide smiling faces proudly placed colourful flowers behind our ears as we walked up the beach to the sounds of the gentle and cheerful singing voices of the locals. Children sat and stood by their families; their shyness was soon overcome and replaced with wide-eyed and cheeky smiles. The adults were selling their local produce and handmade souvenirs. Tanna is known as the Garden Island of Vanuatu with fertile soils producing kava, coffee, and a variety of fruits and vegetables. It is also one of the most traditional islands. Most of the population are Melanesian and our welcome included a variety of dances by men, women, and children dressed in grass skirts and with painted faces.
Our welcome to Tanna was a picture of happiness and with a large number of local people having come to join us on the shoreline there was an aura of enthusiasm and pride. There was nothing to suggest that just seven months earlier in March 2015 this island bore the brunt of one of the worst natural disasters to have ever hit Vanuatu. Homes, farms, crops, schools, and almost the entire infrastructure of this gentle island was destroyed in a matter of hours as Cyclone Pam travelled directly across Tanna. All of these smiling faces had lost something if not everything and yet as the first expedition vessel to visit Tanna since the disaster the resilience and positivity of the Tanna people emanated from everyone throughout our visit.
Asking of their plight since the disaster would be to put words in the islanders’ mouths. People answered our questions, explaining how houses and roads were destroyed, drinking water was unavailable, and that the clean up effort continues to this day. They did not complain or dwell. Dozens of young school children huddled together ready to sing for us and as children would anywhere else in the world they jostled for space amongst their friends, not wanting to be pushed to the front or right to the back. Many of their lives were severely impacted by the cyclone and yet here they were smiling, singing, and happy to greet us. Receiving our donations of school supplies, fuel, clothing, and tinned food it was clear to see that these islanders would ensure those who needed these supplies most would be the ones to receive them.
Our local guides pointed out some of the more obvious effects of the cyclone as we travelled in the back of trucks through the rain forest past small villages where many houses were in the process of being patched up and reconstructed. Some of the immense fig trees that dominate these rain forests had come crashing down leaving patches open, bare, and a gaping sign as to the magnitude of this cyclone. But again our guides smiled and pointed out the brilliance of the erect fig tress and the fact that although the road had been blocked by dozens of fallen trees they were now clear.
Now the roads were repaired and cleared they could once again take people to see the imposing Mount Yasur volcano. After a steep and winding final stretch of road we reached a rather abrupt looking staircase—our final ascent toward the crater rim. The guides ushered us with keen excitement to the top where they kept a watchful eye over us lest one of us step too close. Every time the volcano erupted their animated grins filled the atmosphere as much as ours. It is evident that these islanders have an island they cherish and respect. It is evident that despite the worst that nature can deliver, these islanders will continue to smile.
By Angie Miller, Grosvenor Teacher Fellow in the Arctic
As I step out of the Zodiac and onto the rocky beach, I am acutely aware that over 1,000 years ago, a crew of Norsemen—loyally following their exiled leader, Erik the Red—stepped onto this very beach. I pause and look around at the beckoning green hills that stretch beyond the lower fields and wonder what fears they may have held tight in their hearts and what wonders they must have experienced as they decided to claim it as their new home.
My own heart is full of wonder and awe that I have the opportunity to be here to learn.
It is an unusually blue-sky, billowy cloud kind of day, but the glacier that sits at the head of the fjord, the rocky pitches on the horizon, and the chunks of ice floating in the waters are a reminder that Qassiarsuk, Greenland is a fierce place to survive. Currently, around 90 people, mostly sheep farmers, live here in the few houses splattered across the countryside. Across the fjord sits the Narsarsuaq Airport—the only international airport in southern Greenland, built in 1941 as a US airfield and military hospital during World War II.
But what brings us here are the ruins of Brattahlid (“the steep slope”)—Erik the Red’s estate in the Viking Eastern Settlement. In 985 Erik arrived here, in the inner end of Eriksfjord, recognizing it as some of the best farmland in Greenland. It is here that he built his newly-converted wife, Thjodhild, a Christian church—the first Christian church on the North American continent. The first Greenlandic parliament was held here, and it is also where Leif Eriksson departed to go on to discover Newfoundland and Labrador. The Norse lived here for approximately the next 500 years, which is extraordinary when you consider the United States was not colonized 500 years ago.
Recently, reconstructed versions of the longhouse that once existed on these lands and Thjoldhild’s church have been built, so that visitors can see what the actual ruins may have looked like when they were a thriving community. We admire the sod walls and duck into the tiny chapel that would have once housed 30 Norse for Christian worship. The longhouse is full of sealskins, a loom, and reproductions of clothing, an interesting and closeup look at life during this time.
After passing a statue of Leif Eriksson that overlooks the fjord and climbing over a sheep fence, a colleague and I stretch our legs and see what lies beyond the town, losing ourselves for hours in the highlands. Mountain lakes, rushing rivers, small ponds, and sheep smatter the fertile landscape. The colors are all Kodachrome; the air crisp, clean, and still.
Standing at the top of a hill in comfortable silence, I realize that this is the kind of professional development that will stay with me forever. I will remember the facts. I will understand the spirit of the Norse. I will know the climb of the gray mountains and the cerulean blue fjord.
And this makes me wish I could bring my students here—I wish I could pull each and every one of them across the Atlantic, into this fjord, up this mountain, and have them stand in the very awe that I am experiencing. Of course, this is unfeasible. And I will have to settle into finding ways to deliver this magical experience to them, instead. But it makes me realize the importance of the oft-cut-in-the-school-budget field trip. My students cannot get to Greenland. But back at home we have mountains and lakes, too. We have historical Revolutionary War sites in our back yard. We have museums, conservation areas, and islands filled with ghost stories. We all have magnificent ways to bring our students into their world, and we need to remember, just as I do, standing on top of a hill, that sometimes the best learning takes place when we leave school for a day.
By Jennifer Kingsley, field correspondent for Lindblad Expeditions-National Geographic, who is currently working on #MeetTheNorth, a project about the lives of the four million people living above the Arctic Circle. Follow along at MeetTheNorth.org or on Instagram.
The floor of my balcony aboard Jahan is so close to the Mekong’s surface that I can almost dip my toes in the water. When I open the curtains, I see the red sun rising. I open the sliding door to let in both the heavy air and the sound it carries; boats thrum by and the river laps at water hyacinth. The earthy smell of wood smoke reaches our boat from shore. Today, this river will carry us from one country to another; I head up on deck to watch it happen.
Our days in Vietnam have been busy, some would say “bustling” which sometimes means crowded but also (and always) means full of life. Our last morning is no different; as we head for the border with Cambodia, we travel through knots of boats. The small ones carry coconuts, jicama, rose apples or bananas. I see a woman alone in a small canoe. She crouches at the very tip of the bow, and, using a single paddle, swivels the boat around herself like a weathervane. Mid-sized boats putt by, powered by car engines connected to tiny propellers by long steel pipes. Drivers use the heels of their hands and feet to raise, lower and twist the propellers through shallow water. The larger boats spill rice husk from piles three times my height, and the biggest vessels carry tons of silt and soil to the cities for construction; workers walk barefoot over the cargo to shovel it into perfect pyramids.
I wander the deck after breakfast to catch so many glimpses of life—men together packing fish, women hanging laundry from the stern decks. I don’t yet know how different the river will look two hours from now in another country.
The border is calm and uneventful. The Mekong carries us effortlessly; this river is an ancient trail that has seen political boundaries change countless times. By mid-afternoon we are the only boat on the river. Green branches trim the riverbanks, then give way to the fabric of fields. I see some smoke trails, wooden houses, and the occasional temple in shapes entirely different from what we visited in Vietnam; we could be back to that country in two hours, but it doesn’t feel that way. It’s hard to believe we are barely across the border.
Children bathe and splash in the water up ahead, and the closer we get the more enthusiastically they wave. Further on, two men bring their white cows to the river for a drink. Anything white, like a cow or an ibis, stands out against the red earth and the green forest. On this first day in Cambodia, the natural world steps forward. The river is quiet, and I find myself thinking about borders and transitions.
I overhear someone say that it’s like traveling back in time, but that implies forward and backward as though progress looks a particular way. It doesn’t feel like the past to me; in fact, it feels more like what I hope for the future. I wonder what I’ll see when I pull back the curtains tomorrow.
It’s hard to believe, but in less than a year, we’ve expanded our network of time-lapse cameras to include 16 new cameras on South Georgia Island and the Antarctic Peninsula. The cameras, fixed in the gripping cold and howling winds characteristic of these regions, are watchful eyes, helping us understand the rapid changes occurring in these landscapes. Now, with cameras strategically positioned in the Southern Hemisphere, EIS has a truly global network—an important milestone for our project!
Looking back to last February when we first arrived in Ushuaia, Argentina, with crates full of new time-lapse equipment, our hopes were high but so too were our concerns, as many unknowns stood between us and the successful installation of our cameras. Fast forward two trips and days spent wondering whether or not the cameras would survive an Antarctic winter, we are headed home with a total of 16 cameras in place and more than 15,000 new images!
Stephen Nowland, EIS Photographer, returns from time-lapse cameras “AP-02” and “AP-03” at Neko Harbor on the Antarctic Peninsula. These cameras successfully captured over 6,000 images since they were installed. ©2014 Extreme Ice Survey/Dan McGrath
Successful fieldwork in the polar regions can’t be attributed solely to hard work or good preparation, although both are important parts of the equation. Here, screaming winds, horizontal snow, and whiteout conditions can make installations downright impossible and worse, present a true threat to one’s well being. With a huge sigh of gratitude, I can report that we made it through our most recent journey with thermoses full, rain tarps stowed away, and fingers comfortably warm.
That said, our trip was most definitely not a tropical vacation. Heavy packs, pre-dawn starts, frozen battery boxes, smashed solar panels, back-breaking Zodiac rides, and equipment failures kept the experience lively but just on the right side of enjoyable. Work like this earns the label of Type 2 fun, where Type 1 is playing hooky on a powder day and Type 3 is an awful 14-hour workday racing to meet a looming deadline. You can celebrate Type 2 hardships because, in the end, the good outweighs the bad and looking back, the sense of accomplishment far outweighs the temporary discomforts.
Dan McGrath and Matthew Kennedy attempt to excavate a battery box that became entombed in ice over the winter. Thankfully the cameras still functioned properly. ©2014 Extreme Ice Survey/Stephen Nowland
While weather often presents a major hurdle in the polar regions, logistics also present their challenges. It is with great gratitude and praise that we acknowledge the team at Lindblad Expeditions and the crew, staff, and guests aboard the National Geographic Explorer. Without their support, we simply couldn’t have made these camera installations a reality. Lindblad Expeditions-National Geographic’s commitment to science and conservation is genuine, and we hope our 16 cameras can serve as a testimony to their values.
The National Geographic Explorer carefully navigates through the thick brash ice and towering icebergs occupying Cierva Cove on the Antarctic Peninsula. ©2014 Extreme Ice Survey/Matthew Kennedy
Our initial work is done. Our cameras are hard at work capturing the passing of time and the changing Antarctic landscape. When we return in 2015, we’ll download the cameras’ images, which enable the compression of time into a documented record understandable from a human perspective. Much like the field notes, documents and photographs left behind by explorers and scientists of the last century, we hope our imagery will play a similarly important role and be referenced for years to come. Only time will tell, but until that moment, we will continue to collect and share our experiences and images to the best of our abilities. We encourage you to join us in this journey!
By Matt Kennedy, Extreme Ice Survey
By Dan McGrath, Extreme Ice Survey
The marked retreat of the Marr Ice Piedmont over the past few decades has literally changed the coastline of Anvers Island, a heavily glacierized island off the west coast of the Antarctic Peninsula and home to the U.S. Antarctic Program’s Palmer Station. When Palmer Station began operation in the late 1960s, the ice was only a short distance behind the station and offered a range of recreational opportunities to the small station staff. Palmer Station has become a hub of Antarctic research over the intervening decades, yielding important insights on polar ecosystems and oceanography. All the while, the ice behind the station has been retreating, transforming the coastline and revealing new landscapes.
The Marr Ice Piedmont and Palmer Station seen from DigitalGlobe’s World View 1 satellite, April, 2011. The white line indicates the extent of the Marr in 1975. ©2014 DigitalGlobe, Inc. 1975 extent data courtesy of Bob Farrell.
Last February, aboard the National Geographic Explorer, our team visited Palmer Station to scout locations for future camera installations. We landed on Amsler Island, a rocky outcrop ½ mile (0.8 km) across the ice choked Arthur Harbor from Palmer Station, and located a spot offering a commanding view of the Marr Ice Piedmont. Until 2004, this point was attached to the much larger Anvers Island and only as the ice front retreated was it revealed to be an island.
The clouds hung low over the bay during our visit last February and frequent snow squalls reduced visibility even further. Through breaks in the clouds, we observed a narrow isthmus of ice that tenuously connected a small bulb of ice to the main glacier. Less than a month after our departure, this narrow connection disappeared producing yet another island off the coast of Anvers Island. We’re here now to install two time-lapse cameras to watch any future changes. It’s a beautiful afternoon—light wind, partly cloudy skies and a comfortable temperature. The primary concern today is distraction. We are surrounded by a gorgeous amphitheater constructed of 90 foot-tall ice cliffs, while below, the slowly rising tide pulls along an abundance of bergy bits through the crystal clear waters of Arthur Harbor. If that’s not enough, the near constant belching sounds of the elephant seals reminds us we are far from home.
The jagged edge of the Marr Ice Piedmont towers above the frigid waters of Arthur Harbor. During the installation the familiar sound of calving seracs constantly echoed through the air. ©Extreme Ice Survey/Stephen Nowland
The installation, however, gets off to a rocky start. Matt starts drilling the first hole to anchor the camera post in place and the drill bit snaps. Perplexed, we muse that the bit must have been weakened by a previous incident that broke our primary drill, leaving us with this one and only back-up. And now, we’re down to only two bits. Matt replaces the bit and starts again. Snap! The tip of the bit breaks off again. A solemn feeling comes over us—we only have one drill bit left and if it breaks, we’re done.
Packing for polar expeditions is a difficult task, as you’re constantly forced to decide on how many back-up items to bring—a delicate balance between weight and volume limitations juxtaposed with the reality that if a key item fails, the entire project is on the line. A trip to the hardware store just isn’t possible.
Here we are, a calm day in the Antarctic, all of our gear in place and the installation hangs on this final drill bit. We take a deep breath and Matt starts drilling the holes—he skimps on each one to ensure they’re all drilled, at least partially. A collective sigh of relief is aired as the final anchor is completed. The rest of the installation goes smoothly and we’re back to the ship earlier than expected to celebrate our final camera installation on the Antarctic Peninsula.
Matthew Kennedy, Stephen Nowland, Dan McGrath, and Eric Guth pose for an Extreme Ice Survey team portrait after the final two time-lapse camera installations of 2014. ©Extreme Ice Survey/Matthew Kennedy